“I told him,” wrote the Ambassador to Charles, after one of these conversations, “I often regretted your Majesty had not known him in Wolsey’s time. He would have been a greater man than the Cardinal, and the King’s affairs would have gone much better. He seemed pleased, so I continued. Now was the time for him to do his master better service than ever man did before. Sentence had been given in Rome against the King, and there was no further hope that your Majesty and the Pope would agree to the divorce. I presumed that the King being so reasonable, virtuous, and humane a prince, would not persist longer and blemish the many gifts which God had bestowed on him. I prayed him to move the King. He could do more with him than any other man. He was not in the Council when the accursed business was first mooted. The Queen trusted him, and, when reinstated, would not forget his service. Cromwell took what I said in good part. He assured me that all the Council desired your Majesty’s friendship. He would do his best, and hoped that things would turn out well. If I can believe what he says there is still a hope that the King may change. I will set the net again and try if I can catch him; but one cannot be too cautious. The King is disturbed by what has passed at Rome. He fears the Pope will seduce the French King from him.”[239]

“Who was this Cromwell that had grown to such importance?” Granvelle had asked. “He is the son,” replied Chapuys, “of a farrier in Chelsea, who is buried in the parish church there. His uncle, father of Richard Cromwell, was cook to the Archbishop of Canterbury. This Thomas Cromwell was wild in his youth, and had to leave the country. He went to Flanders and to Rome. Returning thence he married the daughter of a wool merchant, and worked at his father-in-law’s business. After that he became a solicitor. Wolsey, finding him diligent and a man of ability for good or ill, took him into service and employed him in the suppression of religious houses. When Wolsey fell he behaved extremely well. The King took him into his secret Council. Now he is above everyone, except the Lady, and is supposed to have more credit than ever the Cardinal had. He is hospitable and liberal, speaks English well, and Latin, French, and Italian tolerably.”[240]

The intimacy increased. Cromwell, though Imperial in politics and no admirer of Anne Boleyn, was notoriously Henry’s chief adviser in the reform of the clergy; but to this aspect of him Chapuys had no objection. Neither the Ambassador nor Charles, nor any secular statesman in Europe, was blind to the enormities of Churchmen or disposed to lift a finger for them, if reform did not take the shape of Lutheranism. Charles himself had said that, if Henry had no objects beyond the correction of the spiritualty, he would rather aid than obstruct him. Between Chapuys and Cromwell there was thus common ground; and Cromwell’s hint that the King might perhaps reconsider his position may not have been wholly groundless.

The action of the Rota, pressed through by Davalos, had taken Henry by surprise. He had not expected that the Pope would give a distinct judgment against him. He had been equally disappointed in the support which he expected from Francis. That he should now hesitate for an instant was natural and inevitable; but the irresolution, if real, did not last. Norfolk wrote to the King from Paris “to care nothing for the Pope:” there were men “enough at his side in England to defend his right with the sword.”[241] Henry appealed to a General Council, when a Council could be held which should be more than a Papal delegacy. The revenues of the English sees which were occupied by Campeggio and Ghinucci he sequestrated, as a sign of the abandonment of a detestable system.

His own mind, meanwhile, was fastened on the approaching confinement of Anne. With the birth of a male heir to the Crown he knew that his difficulties would vanish. Nurses and doctors had assured him of a son, and the event was expected both by him and by others with passionate expectation. A Prince of Wales would quiet the national uncertainty. It would be the answer of Heaven to Pope and Emperor, and a Divine sanction of his revolt. There is danger in interpreting Providence before the event. If the anticipation is disappointed the weight of the sentence may be thrown into the opposing scale.

To the bitter “mortification of the King and the Lady, to the reproach of physicians, astrologers, sorcerers, and sorceresses who affirmed that the child would be a male,”[242] to the delight of Chapuys and the perplexity of a large section of the English people who were waiting for Providence to speak, on the 7th of September the girl who was afterwards to be Queen Elizabeth was brought into the world.

This was the worst blow which Henry had received. He was less given to superstition than most of his subjects, but there had been too much of appeals to Heaven through the whole of the controversy. The need of a male heir had been paraded before Christendom as the ground of his action. He had already discovered that Anne was not what his blindness to her faults had allowed him to believe; he was fond of the Princess Mary, and Anne had threatened to make a waiting-maid of her. The new Queen had made herself detested in the Court by her insolence; there had been “lover’s quarrels,”[243] from which Catherine’s friends had gathered hopes, and much must have passed behind the scenes of which no record survives. A lady of the bed-chamber had heard Henry say he would “rather beg from door to door than forsake her;”[244] on the other hand, Anne acknowledged afterwards that his love had not been returned, and she could hardly have failed to let him see it. Could she be the mother of a prince she was safe, but on this she might well think her security depended. All Henry’s male children, except the Duke of Richmond, had died at the birth or in infancy; and words which she let fall to her sister-in-law, Lady Rochford, implied a suspicion that the fault was in the King.[245] It is not without significance that in the subsequent indictment of Sir Henry Norris it was alleged that on the 6th of October, 1533, less than a month after Anne’s confinement, she solicited Norris to have criminal intercourse with her, and that on the 12th the act was committed. But to this subject I shall return hereafter.

Anyway, the King made the best of his misfortune. If the first adventure had failed, a second might be more successful. The unwelcome daughter was christened amidst general indifference, without either bonfires or rejoicings. She was proclaimed Princess, and the title was taken away from her sister Mary. Chapuys, after what Cromwell had said to him, trusted naturally that the King’s mind would be affected by his disappointment. They met again. Chapuys urged that it would be easier to set things straight than at an earlier stage. The King, being of a proud temper, would have felt humiliated if he had been baffled. He might now listen to reason. It was said of Englishmen that when they had made a mistake they were more ready to confess it than other people; and, so far from losing in public esteem, he would only gain, if he now admitted that he had been wrong. The Emperor would send an embassy requesting him affectionately to take Catherine back; his compliance would thus lose all appearance of compulsion. The expectation was reasonable. Cromwell, however, had to tell him in earnest language that it could not be; and the Catholic party in England, who had hoped as Chapuys hoped, and found themselves only further embittered by the exclusion of Mary from the succession, became desperate in turn. From this period their incipient treason developed into definite conspiracy, the leader among the disaffected and the most influential from his reputed piety and learning being Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, whose subsequent punishment has been the text for so many eloquent invectives. Writing on the 27th of September to the Emperor, Chapuys says: “The good Bishop of Rochester has sent to me to notify that the arms of the Pope against these obstinate men are softer than lead, and that your Majesty must set your hand to it, in which you will do a work as agreeable to God as a war against the Turk.”[246] This was not all. The Bishop had gone on to advise a measure which would lead immediately and intentionally to a revival of the Wars of the Roses. “If matters come to a rupture, the Bishop said it would be well for your Majesty to attach to yourself the son of the Princess Mary’s governess [the Countess of Salisbury, mother of Reginald Pole], daughter of the Duke of Clarence, to whom, according to the opinion of many, the kingdom would belong. He is now studying at Padua. On account of the pretensions which he and his brother would have to the crown, the Queen would like to bestow the Princess on him in marriage, and the Princess would not refuse. He and his brothers have many kinsmen and allies, of whose services your Majesty might make use and gain the greater part of the realm.”[247]

The Bishop of Rochester might plead a higher allegiance as an excuse for conspiring to dethrone his Sovereign. But those who play such desperate games stake their lives upon the issue, and if they fail must pay the forfeit. The Bishop was not the only person who thus advised Chapuys. Rebellion and invasion became the settled thought of the King’s opponents, and Catherine was expected to lend her countenance. The Regent’s Council at Brussels, bolder than the Spanish, were for immediate war. A German force might be thrown across the Channel. The Flemish nobles might hesitate, but would allow ships to carry an army to Scotland. The army might then march south; Catherine would join it, and appear in the field.[248] Catherine herself bade Chapuys charge the Pope in her name to proceed to the execution of the sentence[249] “in the most rigorous terms of justice possible;” the King, she said, would then be brought to reason when he felt the bit. She did not advocate violence in words, though what she did advocate implied violence and made it inevitable. Fisher was prepared for any extremity. “The good and holy Bishop of Rochester,” Chapuys repeated, “would like your Majesty to take active measures immediately, as I wrote in my last, which advice he has sent to me again lately to repeat.[250] Without this they fear disorder. The smallest force would suffice.”

Knowing Charles’s unwillingness, the Ambassador added a further incitement. Among the preachers, he said, there was one who spread worse errors than Luther. The Prelates all desired to have him punished, but the Archbishop of Canterbury held him up, the King would not listen to them; and, were it not that he feared the people, would long since have professed Lutheranism himself.[251]

CHAPTER XIV.

The Pope’s last brief had been sufficiently definite to enable the Emperor to act upon it if Henry still disobeyed. English scruples, however, required a judgment on the divorce itself before force was openly tried. Clement went, as he had intended, to France in October, and met the French King at Marseilles. Norfolk, as has been said, was not allowed to be present; but Gardiner and Bonner attended as inferior agents to watch the proceedings. Cifuentes followed the Papal Court for Charles, and the English Nuncio, who had been at last recalled, was present also. The main result of the interview was the marriage of the Duke of Orleans to the Pope’s niece, Catherine de’ Medici, a guarantee that Francis was not to follow England into schism but was to remain Catholic. The engagements with which he had tempted Henry into committing himself were thus abandoned, and the honour which had been saved at Pavia was touched, if it was not lost. It had strength enough, however, to lead him still to exert himself to bring Clement to reason. The bribe of Calais was not tried upon him, having been emphatically negatived by the Emperor. The Chancellor of France presented in Henry’s name a formal complaint of the Pope’s conduct. It was insisted that when he commissioned Campeggio to go to England, he had formally promised not to revoke the cause to Rome, and this promise he had violated. The Pope’s answer was curious. He admitted the promise, but he said it was conditional on Queen Catherine’s consent, though this clause was not inserted in the commission lest it might suggest to her to complain.[252] The answer was allowed to pass. Other objections were similarly set aside, and then the Cardinal de Tarbes, professing to speak in Henry’s name, proposed that the Pope should appoint another commission to hear the cause at Cambray, himself nominating the judges. If the Pope would comply he was authorised to say that the King would obey, and, pending the trial, would separate from Anne and recall Catherine to the court. Cifuentes had again urged the Pope to declare Henry deprived. The Pope had refused on the ground that, unless the Emperor would bind himself to execute the sentence in arms, the Holy See would lose reputation.[253] He had, therefore, a fair excuse for listening to the French suggestion. The Cardinals deliberated, and thought it ought to be accepted. If the King would really part with Anne the cause might be even heard in England itself, and no better course could be thought of. The proposal was referred, through the Papal Nuncio, to the Emperor, and the Emperor wrote on the margin of the Nuncio’s despatch to him that he could give no answer till he had communicated with Catherine, but that he would write and recommend her to follow the course pointed out by his Holiness.[254]

The Spanish party suspected a trick. They thought that there might be an appearance of compliance with the Pope’s brief. Catherine might be allowed a room in the Palace till the cause was removed from Rome. It was all but gained in the Rota; if referred back in the manner proposed, it would be delayed by appeals and other expedients till it became interminable. Their alternative was instant excommunication. But the Pope had the same answer. How could he do that? He did not know that the Emperor would take up arms. Were he to issue the censures, and were no effect to follow, the Apostolic See would be discredited. De Tarbes was asked to produce his commission from Henry to make suggestions in his name. It was found when examined to be insufficient. Henry himself, when he learnt what had been done, “changed colour, crushed the letter in his hands, and exclaimed that the King of France had betrayed him.”[255] But he had certainly made some concession or other. The time allowed in the last brief had run out. The French Cardinals did not relinquish their efforts. They demanded a suspension of six months, till Henry and Francis could meet again and arrange something which the Pope could accept. The Pope, false himself, suspected every one to be as false as he was. He suspected that a private arrangement was being made between Henry and the Emperor, and Cifuentes himself could not or would not relieve his misgivings. In the midst of the uncertainty a courier came in from England with an appeal ad futurum Concilium—when a council could be held that was above suspicion. The word “council” always drove Clement distracted. He complained to Francis, and Francis, provoked at finding his efforts paralysed, said angrily that, were it not for his present need of the King of England’s friendship lest others should forestall him there, he would play him a trick that he should remember. The suspension of the censures for an indefinite time was granted, however, after a debate in the Consistory. The English Council, when the proposal for the hearing of the cause at Cambray was submitted to them, hesitated over their answer. They told Chapuys that such a compromise as the Pope offered might once have been entertained, but nothing now would induce the King to sacrifice the interests of his new-born daughter; “all the Ambassadors in the world would not move him, nor even the Pope himself, if he came to visit him.”[256]

Nevertheless, so anxious were all parties now at the last moment to find some conditions or other to prevent the division of Christendom that the Cardinal de Tarbes’s proposition, or something like it, might have been accepted. The Emperor, however, had made his consent contingent on Catherine’s acquiescence, and Catherine herself refused—refused resolutely, absolutely, and finally. Charles had written to her as he had promised. Chapuys sent her down the letter with a draft of the terms proposed, and he himself strongly exhorted her to agree. He asked for a distinct “Yes” or “No,” and Catherine answered “No.” Her cause should be heard in Rome, she said, and nowhere but in Rome; the removal to Cambray meant only delay, and from delay she had suffered long enough; should Anne Boleyn have a son meanwhile, the King would be more obstinate than ever. The Pope must be required to end the cause himself and to end it quickly. The Emperor knew her determination and might have spared his application.[257] She wrote to Chapuys “that, sentence once pronounced, the King, for all his bravado and obstinacy, would listen to reason, and war would be unnecessary.” “On that point,” the Ambassador said, “she would not find a single person to agree with her.”[258]

Catherine had pictured to herself a final triumph, and she could not part with the single hope which had cheered her through her long trial. If any chance of accommodation remained after her peremptory answer, it was dispelled by the discovery of the treason connected with the Nun of Kent. The story of Elizabeth Barton has been told by me elsewhere. Here it is enough to say that from the beginning of the divorce suit a hysterical woman, professing to have received Divine revelations, had denounced the King’s conduct in private and public, and had influenced the judgment of peers, bishops, statesmen, and privy councillors. She had been treated at first as a foolish enthusiast, but her prophecies had been circulated by an organisation of itinerant friars, and had been made use of to feed the disaffection which had shown itself in the overtures to Chapuys. The effect which she had produced had been recently discovered. She had been arrested, had made a large confession, and had implicated several of the greatest names in the realm. She had written more than once to the Pope. She had influenced Warham. She had affected the failing intellect of Wolsey. The Bishop of Rochester, the Marquis and Marchioness of Exeter, had admitted her to intimate confidence. Even Sir Thomas More had at one time half believed that she was inspired. Catherine, providentially, as Chapuys thought, had declined to see her, but was acquainted with all that passed between her and the Exeters.

When brought before the Council she was treated comme une grosse dame—as a person of consideration. The occasion was of peculiar solemnity, and great persons were in attendance from all parts of the realm. The Chancellor, in the Nun’s presence, gave a history of her proceedings. He spoke of the loyalty and fidelity which had been generally shown by the nation during the trying controversy. The King had married a second wife to secure the succession and provide for the tranquillity of the realm. The woman before them had instigated the Pope to censure him, and had endeavoured to bring about a rebellion to deprive him of his throne. The audience, who had listened quietly so far, at the word “rebellion” broke out into cries of “To the stake! to the stake!” The Nun showed no alarm, but admitted quietly that what the Chancellor said was true. She had acknowledged much, but more lay behind, and Chapuys confessed himself alarmed at what she might still reveal. Cromwell observed to him that “God must have directed the sense and wit of the Queen to keep clear of the woman.” But Catherine’s confessor had been among the most intimate of her confederates; and to be aware of treason and not reveal it was an act of treason in itself. Sir Thomas More cleared himself. Fisher, the guiltiest of all, was sent to the Tower for misprision.

The Pope’s final sentence was now a certainty. Francis had cleared his conscience by advocating the compromise. Nothing more could be done, he said, unless Cranmer’s judgment was revoked. He chose to forget that the compromise had been rejected by Catherine herself. He complained that as fast as he studied to gain the Pope the English studied to lose him. He had devised a plan, and the English spoilt it. He regretted that he had ever meddled in the matter. The Pope could not help himself; but must now excommunicate the King and call on Christendom to support him.[259]

Henry could no longer doubt that he was in serious danger. To the risk of invasion from abroad, disaffection at home had to be added. How far it extended he did not yet know. All along, however, he had been preparing for what the future might bring. The fleet was in high order; the fortifications at Dover and Calais had been repaired; if the worst came he meant to be ready for it; the stoppage of trade might be serious; it was to this that Catherine looked as her most effective weapon; but English commerce was as important to Spain and Flanders as the Flemish woollens to the London citizens, and the leading merchants on both sides came to an understanding that an Interdict would be disregarded. The Lutherans had the courage of their opinions and could be depended on to fight. The laws against heretics were allowed to sleep. Their numbers increased, and the French Ambassador observed to Chapuys that they would not easily be eradicated. Many who were orthodox in the faith were bitter against Rome and Romanism. The Duke of Norfolk was the loudest of them all. Flanders could not live, he said, to a deputation of alarmed citizens, without the English trade; and as to the Pope, the Pope was a wretch and a bastard, a liar and a bad man; he would stake wife and children and his own person to be revenged on him.[260] An order of Council came out that the Pope henceforward was to be styled only Bishop of Rome. Chapuys could not understand it. The Duke, he thought, was strangely changed; he had once professed to be a staunch Catholic. Norfolk had not changed. The peculiar Anglican theory was beginning to show itself that a Church might still be Catholic though it ceased to be Papal.

Irritated though he was at his last failure, Francis did not wholly abandon his efforts. A successful invasion of England by the Emperor would be dangerous or even fatal to France. He wrote to Anne. He sent his letter by the hands of her old friend, Du Bellay, and she was so pleased that she kissed him when he presented it. Du Bellay sought out Chapuys. “Could nothing be done,” he asked, “to prevent England from breaking with the Papacy? Better England, France, and the Empire had spent a hundred thousand crowns than allow a rupture. The Emperor had done his duty in supporting his aunt; might he not now yield a little to avoid worse?” Chapuys could give him no hope. The treatment of Catherine alone would force the Emperor to take further measures.

That Catherine, so far, had no personal ill-usage to complain of had been admitted by the Spanish Council, and alleged as an argument against interference by force in her favour. Chapuys conceived, and probably hoped, that this objection was being removed.

What to do with her was not the least of the perplexities in which Henry had involved himself. By the public law of Christendom, a marriage with a brother’s widow was illegal. By the law as it has stood ever since in England, the Pope of Rome neither has, nor ever had, a right to dispense in such cases. She was not, therefore, Henry’s queen. She deserved the most indulgent consideration; her anger and her resistance were legitimate and natural; but the fact remained. She had refused all compromise. She had insisted on a decision, and an English Court had given judgment against her. If she was queen, Elizabeth was a bastard, and her insistance upon her title was an invitation to civil war. She was not standing alone. The Princess Mary, on her father’s marriage with Anne, had written him a letter, which he had praised as greatly to her credit; but either Anne’s insolence or her mother’s persuasion had taken her back to Catherine’s side. Her conduct may and does deserve the highest moral admiration; but the fidelity of the child to her mother was the assertion of a right to be next in succession to the crown. There was no longer a doubt that a dangerous movement was on foot for an insurrection, supported from abroad. If Catherine escaped with Mary to the Continent, war would instantly follow. If there was a rebellion at home, their friends intended to release them, and to use their names in the field. It was found necessary again to part them. The danger would be diminished if they were separated; together they confirmed each other’s resolution. Catherine was sent to Kimbolton with a reduced household—her confessor, her doctor, her own personal servants and attendants—who had orders to call her Princess, but obeyed as little as they pleased. Mary was attached to the establishment of her baby sister Elizabeth under charge of Anne Boleyn’s aunt, Mrs. Shelton.

History with a universal voice condemns the King’s conduct as cruel and unnatural. It was not cruel in the sense of being wanton; it was not unnatural in the sense that he had no feeling. He was in a dilemma, through his own actions, from which he could not otherwise extricate himself. Catherine was not his wife, and he knew it; he had been misled by Wolsey into the expectation that the Pope would relieve him; he had been trifled with and played upon; he was now threatened with excommunication and deposition. Half his subjects, and those the boldest and most determined, had rallied to his side; his cause had become the occasion of a great and beneficent revolution, and incidental difficulties had to be dealt with as they rose. Catherine he had long ceased to love, if love had ever existed between them, but he respected her character and admired her indomitable courage. For his daughter he had a real affection, as appeared in a slight incident which occurred shortly after her removal. Elizabeth was at Hatfield, and Mary, whose pride Anne had threatened to humble, was with her. Mrs. Shelton’s orders were to box Mary’s ears if she presumed to call herself Princess. The King knew nothing of these instructions. He had found his daughter always dutiful except when under her mother’s influence, and one day he rode down to Hatfield to see her. The Lady Anne, finding that he had gone without her knowledge, “considering the King’s easiness and lightness, if anyone dared to call it so,” and afraid of the effect which a meeting with his daughter might have upon him, sent some one in pursuit to prevent him from seeing or speaking with her. The King submitted to his imperious mistress, saw Anne’s child, but did not see Mary. She had heard of his arrival, and as he was mounting his horse to ride back she showed herself on the leads, kneeling as if to ask his blessing. The King saw her, bowed, lifted his bonnet, and silently went his way.[261]

The French Ambassador met him afterwards in London. The King said he had not spoken to his daughter on account of her Spanish obstinacy. The Ambassador saying something in her favour, “tears rushed into the King’s eyes, and he praised her many virtues and accomplishments.” “The Lady,” said Chapuys, “is aware of the King’s affection for his daughter, and therefore never ceases to plot against her.” The Earl of Northumberland, once Anne’s lover, told him that she meant to poison the Princess. Chapuys had thought it might be better if she avoided irritating her father; he advised her to protect herself by a secret protest, and to let her title drop on condition that she might live with her mother. Lady Anne, however, it was thought, would only be more malicious, and a show of yielding would discourage her friends. Another plan was to carry her off abroad; but war would then be inevitable, and Chapuys could not venture to recommend such an attempt without the Emperor’s express consent.[262]

Catherine also was, or professed to be, in fear of foul play. Kimbolton was a small but not inconvenient residence. It was represented as a prison. The King was supposed to be eager for her death; and in the animosity of the time he, or at least his mistress, was thought capable of any atrocity. The Queen was out of health in reality, having shown signs of dropsy, and the physicians thought her life uncertain. She would eat nothing which her new servants provided; the little food she took was prepared by her chamberwoman, and her own room was used as a kitchen.[263] Charles had intimated that, if she was ill-used, he might be driven to interfere; and every evil rumour that was current was treasured up to exasperate him into action. No words, Chapuys said in a letter to the Emperor, could describe the grief which the King’s conduct to the Queen and Princess was creating in the English people. They complained bitterly of the Emperor’s inaction. They waited only for the arrival of a single ship of war to rise en masse; and, if they had but a leader to take command, they said, they would do the work themselves. They reminded him of Warwick, who dethroned the King’s grandfather, and Henry VII., who dethroned Richard. Some even said the Emperor’s right to the throne was better than the present King’s; for Edward’s children were illegitimate, and the Emperor was descended from the House of Lancaster. If the Emperor would not move, at least he might stop the Flanders trade, and rebellion would then be certain. There was not the least hope that the King would submit. The accursed Anne had so bewitched him that he dared not oppose her. The longer the Emperor delayed, the worse things would grow from the rapid spread of Lutheranism.[264]

Wise sovereigns, under the strongest provocation, are slow to encourage mutiny in neighbouring kingdoms. Charles had to check the overzeal of his Ambassador, and to tell him that “the present was no time for vigorous action or movement of any kind.” Chapuys promised for the future “to persuade the Queen to patience, and to do nothing which might lead to the inconvenience” which the Emperor pointed out.[265] His impatient English friends whom he called “the people” were still obliged to submit in patience, while the King went on upon his way in the great business of the realm, amidst the “impress of shipwrights,” the “daily cast of cannon,” and foreign mart of implements for war. An embassy was sent to Germany to treat for an alliance with the Smalcaldic League. A book was issued, with the authority of the Privy Council, on the authority of kings and priests, showing that bishops and priests were equal, and that princes must rule them both. The Scotch Ambassador told Chapuys that if such a book had been published in his country the author of it would have been burnt.[266] Parliament met to pass the Bill, of which Henry had introduced a draft in the previous session, to restrict the Bishops’ powers of punishing heretics. Dr. Nixe, the old bishop of Norwich, had lately burnt Thomas Bilney on his own authority, without waiting for the King’s writ. Henry had the Bishop arrested, tried him before a lay judge, confiscated his property, and imprisoned him in the Tower. Parliament made such exploits as that of Dr. Nixe impossible for the future.

Act followed Act on the same lines. The Pope’s Bulls were dispensed with on appointments to vacant sees. The King’s nomination was to suffice. The tributes to Rome, which had been levied hitherto in infinite variety of form, were to be swept finally away, and with them an Act was introduced of final separation from the Papacy. Were it only in defiance of the Pope, Chapuys said, such measures impending would matter little, for the motive was understood; but the Preachers were teaching Lutheranism in the pulpits, drawing crowds to hear them, and, unless the root could be torn out, the realm would be lost.

Before the closing stroke was dealt in England the last scene of the tragi-comedy had to be played out in Rome itself. On the Pope’s return from Marseilles the thunderbolt was expected to fall. The faithful Du Bellay rushed off to arrest the uplifted arm. He found Clement wrangling as before with Cifuentes, and Cifuentes, in despair, considering that, if justice would not move the Pope, other means would have to be found. The English Acts of Parliament were not frightening Clement. To them he had become used. But he knew by this time for certain that, if he deprived Henry, the Emperor would do nothing. Why, said he, in quiet irony, to the Emperor’s Minister, does not your master proceed on the Brief de Attentatis? It would be as useful to him as the sentence which he asks for. By that the King has forfeited his throne. Cifuentes had to tell him, what he himself was equally aware of, that it was not so held in England. Until the main cause had been decided it was uncertain whether the marriage with Anne Boleyn might not be lawful after all.[267] In one of his varying moods the Pope had said at Marseilles that, if Henry had sent a proctor to plead for him at Rome, sentence would have been given in his favour.[268] It was doubtful whether even the Emperor was really determined, so ambiguous had been his answers when he was asked if he would execute the Bull. Du Bellay arrived in the midst of the suspense. He had brought an earnest message from Francis, praying that judgment might be stayed. As this was the last effort to prevent the separation of England the particulars have a certain interest.

In an interview with the Pope Du Bellay said that when he left London he believed that the rupture was inevitable. His own sovereign, however, had sent him to represent to the Holy See that the King of England was on the eve of forming a treaty with the Lutheran Princes. The King of France did not pretend to an opinion on the right or wrong of his brother of England’s case; but he wished to warn his Holiness that means ought to be found to prevent such an injury to the Church.

The Pope answered that he had thought long and painfully on what he ought to do, and had delayed sentence as long as he was able. The Queen was angry and accused him of having been the cause of all that had happened. If the King of France had any further proposal to offer he was ready to hear it. If not, the sentence must be pronounced.

Cifuentes, finding Clement again hesitating, pointed out to him the violent acts which were being done in England, the encouragement of heresy, the cruel treatment of the Queen and Princess, and the risk to the Queen’s life if nothing was done to help her. Clement sent for Du Bellay again and inquired more particularly if he had brought no practical suggestion with him. Du Bellay could only say that he had himself brought none; but he trusted that the Pope might devise something, as, without it, not England only but other countries would be irretrievably lost to the Holy See. The Pope said he could think of nothing; and in his account of what had passed to Cifuentes he declared that he had told Du Bellay that he meant to proceed.

Cifuentes was not satisfied. He saw that the Pope was still reluctant. He knew that there were intrigues among the Cardinals. He said that Henry was only making use of France to intimidate him. He asserted, with the deluding confidence which blinded the whole Catholic party, that the revolt of England was the act of the King and not of the people. He was certain, he said, that, although the Bishop pretended that he had no expedient to propose, he had one which he dared not disclose. He could not bring the Pope to a resolution. A further delay of six weeks was granted. Messengers were despatched to England, and English Commissioners were sent in answer. They had no concessions to offer, nor were any concessions expected of them. They lingered on the way. The six weeks expired and they had not arrived. The Spanish party in the Consistory were peremptory. They satisfied the Pope’s last scruples by assuring him, vaguely, that he might rely upon the Emperor, and on March 23, with an outburst of general enthusiasm, the Bull was issued which declared valid the marriage of Henry and Catherine, the King to be excommunicated if he disobeyed, and to have forfeited the allegiance of his subjects.

The secular arm was not yet called in, and, before Charles could be required to move, one more step would still be needed. But essentially, and on the main cause of the trouble, the Pope had at last spoken, and spoken finally.[269] The passionate and devout Ortiz poured out on the occasion the emotions of grateful Catholicity. “The Emperor,” he wrote, “had won the greatest of his victories—a victory over Hell. There had been difficulties even to the last. Campeggio had opposed, but at last had yielded to the truth. The Pope repented of his delay, but now feared he had committed a great sin in hesitating so long. The holy martyr, the Queen of England, had been saved. The Cardinals in past years had been bribed by the French King; by the influence of the Holy Spirit they had all decided in the Queen’s favour. Their conscience told them they could not vote against her.”[270]

In England the news of the decision had not been waited for. Two days after the issue of the Bull, the Act abolishing the Pope’s authority was read the last time in the House of Lords, to the regret, said Chapuys, of a minority of good men, who could not carry the House along with them.

CHAPTER XV.

Pretenders to supernatural powers usually confine the display of their skill to the presence of friends and believers. The exercise of such powers to silence opponents or to convince incredulity may be alleged to have existed in the past, or may be foretold as to happen in the future; in the actual present prudent men are cautious of experiments which, if they fail, bring them only into ridicule. Excommunication had real terrors when a frightened world was willing to execute its penalties—when the object of the censure was cut off from the services of religion and was regarded as a pariah and an outlaw. The Princes of Europe had real cause to fear the curse of the Pope when their own subjects might withdraw their obedience and the Christian Powers were ready to take arms to coerce them. But Clement knew that his own thunders would find no such support, and he lacked the confidence of Dr. Ortiz that Heaven, if men failed, would avenge its own wrongs. He had not been permitted even to invite the Emperor formally to enforce the sentence which he had been compelled to pronounce. Protestant Germany had been left unpunished in its heresy. The curse had passed harmless over Luther and Luther’s supporters. In England he was assured that his authority was still believed in, and that the King would be brought to judgment by his subjects. But there were no outward signs of it. His Bulls could no longer be introduced there. His clergy might at heart be loyal to him; but they had submitted to the Crown and the Parliament. His name was struck out of the service-books, and the business of life went on as if he had never spoken; the business of life, and also the business of the Government: for, the Pope being disposed of, the vital question of the succession to the Crown had still to be formally arranged.

Since the Emperor would not act Chapuys had been feeling his way with the Scotch. If James chose to assert himself, the Ambassador had promised him the Emperor’s support. “He might marry the Princess Mary, and the Emperor would welcome the union of the crowns of Scotland and England.”[271] Had Mary submitted to her father, her claim to a place in the line of inheritance would not have been taken from her, for she had been born bonâ fide parentum and in no reasonable sense could be held illegitimate. But she had remained immoveable. In small things as well as great she had been unnecessarily irritating. Her wardrobe had required replenishing, and she had refused to receive anything which was not given to her as Princess. Anne Boleyn accused her aunt of being too lenient, Mrs. Shelton having refused to make herself the instrument of Anne’s violence. Chapuys feared the “accursed Lady” might be tempted into a more detestable course. But, any way, the nation had broken with the Pope, and Mary could not be left with the prospect of succeeding to the crown while she denied the competency of the English Parliament and the English courts of justice. A bill, therefore, was introduced to make the necessary provisions, establishing the succession in the child, and future children, of Anne.

Catherine could not yet believe that Parliament would assent. Parliament, she thought, had never yet heard the truth. She directed Chapuys to apply for permission to appear at the bar of the House of Lords and speak for her and the Princess.

After the failure of the Nuncio with Convocation Chapuys had little hope that he would be listened to; but Catherine insisted on his making the attempt, since a refusal, she thought, would be construed into an admission of her right.

The Ambassador wrote to the Council. They desired to know what he proposed to say, and he was allowed a private interview with the Duke of Norfolk. He told the Duke that he wished merely to give a history of the divorce case and would say nothing to irritate. The Duke said he would speak to the King; but the Emperor, considering all that the King had done for him, had not treated him well; they would sooner he had gone to war at once than crossed and thwarted them at so many turns. Chapuys protested that war had never been thought of, and it was arranged that he should see the King and himself present his request. Before he entered the presence Norfolk warned him to be careful of his words, as he was to speak on matters so odious and unpleasing that all the sugars and sauces in the world could not make them palatable. The King, however, was gracious. Chapuys boldly entered on the treatment of the Queen and Princess. He had heard, he said, that the subject was to be laid before Parliament, and he desired to present his remonstrances to the Lords and Commons themselves.

The King replied civilly that, as Chapuys must be aware, his first marriage had been judicially declared null; the Lady Catherine, therefore, could not any longer be called queen, nor the Lady Mary his legitimate daughter. As to Chapuys’s request, it was not the custom in England for strangers to speak in Parliament.

Chapuys urged that the Archbishop’s sentence was worth no more than the Bishop of Bath’s sentence illegitimatising the children of Edward IV. Parliament would, no doubt, vote as the King pleased; but, as to custom, no such occasion had ever arisen before, and Parliament was not competent to decide questions which belonged only to spiritual judges. The Princess was indisputably legitimate, as at the time of her birth no doubt existed on the lawfulness of her mother’s marriage.

This was a sound argument, and Henry seemed to admit the force of it. But he said that neither pope nor princes had a right to interfere with the laws and institutions of England. Secular judges were perfectly well able to deal with matrimonial causes. The Princess Elizabeth was next in succession till a son was born to him. That son he soon hoped to have. In short, he declined to allow Chapuys to make a speech in the House of Lords; so Chapuys dropped the subject, and interceded for permission to the Princess Mary to reside with her mother. He said frankly that, if harm came to her while in the charge of her present governess, the world would not be satisfied. Of course he knew that for all the gold in the world the King would not injure his daughter; but, even if she died of an ordinary illness, suspicions would be entertained of foul play. With real courage Chapuys reminded Henry that the knights who killed Becket had been encouraged by the knowledge that the king was displeased with him. The enemies of the Princess, perceiving that she was out of favour, and aware of the hatred[272] felt for her by the Lady Anne, might be similarly tempted to make away with her while she was in Mrs. Shelton’s charge.

If Chapuys really used this language (and the account of it is his own), Henry VIII. was more forbearing than history has represented him. He turned the subject, and complained, as Norfolk had done, of the Emperor’s ingratitude. Chapuys said he had nothing to fear from the Emperor, unless he gave occasion for it. He smiled sardonically, and replied that, if he had been vindictive, there had been occasions when he could have revenged himself. It was enough, however, if the world knew how injured he had been. He then closed the conversation, dismissed his visitor, and told him he must be satisfied with the patience with which he had been heard.[273]

The Bill for the settlement of the crown was thus discussed without Chapuys’s assistance. The terms of it and the reasons for it are familiar to all readers of English history. The King’s efforts to obtain an heir male had, so far, only complicated an already dangerous problem. Though the marriage with Catherine had been set aside in an English court, the right of such a Court to pronounce upon it was not yet familiar to the nation generally. The Pope had given an opposite sentence: many of the peers and commons, the Duke of Norfolk among them, though reconciled to the divorce, had not yet made up their minds to schism;[274] and Mary had still many friends who were otherwise loyal to her father. But, after the experience of the last century, Englishmen of all persuasions were frightened at the prospect of a disputed succession, which only a peremptory Act of Parliament could effectively dispose of. The Bill, therefore, passed at last with little opposition. Cranmer’s judgment was confirmed as against the Pope’s. The marriage with Catherine was declared null, the marriage with Anne valid, and Anne’s children the lawful heirs of the crown. The Act alone was not enough. The disclosures brought to light in the affair of the Nun of Kent, the disaffection then revealed, and the rank of the persons implicated in it, necessitated further precautions. Any doubt which might have existed on the extent and character of the conspiracy is removed for ever by the Spanish Ambassador’s letters. The Pope was threatening to absolve English subjects from their allegiance; how far he might be able to influence their minds had as yet to be seen; a Commission, therefore, was appointed to require and receive the oaths of all persons whom there was reason to suspect, that they would maintain the succession as determined in the Act.

The sentence from Rome had not arrived when the Bill became law, and no action was taken upon it till the terms in which Clement had spoken were specifically known. Catherine, however, seemed to think that the further she could provoke Henry to harsh measures, the nearer would be her own deliverance. She had always persuaded herself that judgment once given at Rome for her, the King would yield. The Act of Succession was thus specially galling, and with the same violent unwisdom which she had shown from the first, and against the direct advice of Chapuys, she had decided that the time was come for Mary “to show her teeth to the King.”[275]

It was not for her to expose her daughter to perils which she professed to believe were threatening the lives of both of them. But Mary obeyed her but too well. While the Succession Bill was before the two Houses, Anne, probably at Henry’s instance, went to Hatfield to invite her to receive her as Queen, promising, if she complied, that she should be treated better than she had ever been. Mary’s answer was that she knew no Queen but her mother; if the King’s mistress, so she designated Anne, would intercede with her father for her she would be grateful. The Lady, Chapuys heard, had said in a rage that she would put down that proud Spanish blood and do her worst with her. Nor was this all. The determined girl refused to be included in Elizabeth’s household, or pay her the respect attaching to her birth. Elizabeth soon after being removed from Hatfield to the More, Mary declined to go with her, and obliged the gentlemen in attendance to place her by force in Mrs. Shelton’s litter. The Ambassador felt the folly of such ineffectual resistance. Never, he said, would he have advised her to run such a risk of exasperating the King, while the Lady Anne was never ceasing day or night to injure her. His own advice had been that when violence was threatened she should yield; but he had been overruled by Catherine.[276]

Chapuys’s intercourse with the Court was now restricted. He was received when he applied for a formal interview; but for his information on what was passing there, he was left to secret friends or to his diplomatic colleagues. He asked the French Ambassador how the King took the Pope’s sentence. The ambassador said the King did not care in the least, which Chapuys was unable to believe. The action of the Parliament alarmed and shocked him. Among the hardest blows was the taking from the Bishops the powers of punishing heretics—a violation, as it appeared to him, of common right and the constitution of the realm. The sharp treatment of Bishop Nixe he regarded as an outrage and a crime. The Easter preachers were ordered to denounce the Pope in their sermons. Chapuys shuddered at their language. “They surpassed themselves in the abominations which they uttered.” Worse than sermons followed. On the arrival of the “sentence,” the Commission began its work in requiring the oath to the Succession Act. Those whose names had been compromised in the revelation of the Nun were naturally the first to be put to the test. Fisher, who had been found guilty of misprision of treason, had so far been left unpunished. It is uncertain whether the Government was aware of his communications with Chapuys, but enough was known to justify suspicion. The oath was offered him. He refused to take it, and he was committed to the Tower in earnest. He had been sentenced to imprisonment before, but had been so far left at liberty. Sir Thomas More might have been let alone, for there was no fear that he would lend himself to active treason. He, too, however, was required to swear, and declined, and followed Fisher to the same place. The Pope had declared war against the King, and his adherents had become the King’s enemies. Chapuys himself was suspected. His encouragement of disaffection could not have been wholly concealed. He believed that his despatches had been opened in Calais, and that Cromwell had read them. There had been a Scotch war. As the Emperor was disinclined to stir, Chapuys had looked on James as a possibly useful instrument in disturbing Henry’s peace. A Scottish Commission was in London to arrange a treaty, “as they had found England too strong for them alone.” The Ambassador, more eager than ever, tried his best to dissuade the Chief Commissioner from agreeing to terms, pointing out the condition of the kingdom and the advantage to Scotland in joining in an attack on the King. The Scotchman listened, and promised to be secret. Chapuys assured him of the Emperor’s gratitude,[277] and, though the treaty was concluded, he consoled the Ambassador by saying “that the peace would not prevent his master from waging war on the English. Pleas in plenty could easily be found.”[278]

Ireland was a yet more promising field of operations. On the first rumour of the divorce the Earl of Desmond had offered his services to the Emperor. Chapuys discovered a more promising champion of the Church in Lord Thomas Fitzgerald, whom he described as “a youth of high promise.” If the Pope would send the censures to Dublin, he undertook that Lord Thomas would publish them, and would be found a useful friend.

Again, in spite of refusal, he urged the Emperor to take action himself. Harm, he said, would befall the Queen and Princess, if there was longer delay; Mrs. Shelton had told Mary that she would lose her head if she persisted in disobedience; the people loved them well, but were afraid to move without support. The Lutherans were increasing, and would soon be dangerously strong. The present was the time to act. The King thought he could hold the recusants down by obliging them to swear to his statute; but if the chance was allowed, they would show their real minds.[279]

One difficulty remained in the way of action. The Pope, though he had given judgment, had not yet called in the secular arm which was supposed to be necessary as a preliminary, and all parties, save Catherine and her passionate advisers, were unwilling that a step should be taken from which there would be no returning. The Emperor did not wish it. Francis, irritated at the refusal to listen to Du Bellay, told the Pope that he was throwing England away. “The Pope,” wrote the Cardinal of Jaen to Secretary Covos, “is restive. If we push him too hard he may go over to the enemy.”[280] Charles ordered Cifuentes to keep strictly to his instructions. The evident hesitation amused and encouraged the English Cabinet. “Which Pope do you mean?” said the Duke of Norfolk to the Scotch Ambassador, who had spoken of Clement as an arbiter on some point in dispute, “the Pope of Rome or the Pope of Lambeth?” Henry, finding Francis had not wholly deserted him, “praised God” at a public dinner for having given him so good a brother in the King of France.

Under these circumstances, the Catholic party in England were alarmed and perplexed. Catherine had been undeceived at last in her expectation that the King would submit when the Pope had spoken. She informed Chapuys that she now saw it was necessary to use stronger remedies. What these remedies should be Chapuys said she dared not write, lest her letters should be intercepted. She was aware, too, that the Emperor knew best what should be done. Something must be tried, however, and speedily; for the King was acting vigorously, and to wait would be to be lost. A startling difference of opinion also was beginning to show itself even among the Queen’s friends. Some might turn round, Chapuys said, as they feared the Emperor, in helping her, would set up again the Pope’s authority, which they called tyrannical. It was the alarm at this which enabled the King to hold his subjects together.[281]

Though Mary had “shown her teeth” at her mother’s bidding, she had not provoked her father to further severities. He asked Mrs. Shelton if her pride was subdued. Mrs. Shelton saying there were no signs of it, he ordered that she should be more kindly treated; and he sent her a message that, if she was obedient, he would find some royal marriage for her. She answered that God had not so blinded her that she should confess that her father and mother had lived in adultery. The words, perhaps, lost nothing in the repeating; but the King said, and said rightly, that it was her mother’s influence. Catherine had persuaded her that his kindness was treachery, and that there was a purpose to poison her.[282]

A serious question, however, had risen about the Statute of Succession. The oath had been universally taken by everyone to whom it had been offered save More and Fisher. The reason for demanding it was the notorious intention of the Catholic party to take arms in Catherine’s and Mary’s interests. Were others to be sworn, and were the two ladies chiefly concerned to be exempted? Catherine, in ceasing to be queen, might be held to have recovered her rights as a foreigner. But she had remained in England by her own wish, and at the desire of the Emperor, to assist in fighting out the battle. Mary was undoubtedly a subject, and Catherine and she had both intimated that if the oath was demanded of them they would not take it. The Peers and Bishops were called together to consider the matter, and, as Catherine was a Spanish Princess, Chapuys was invited to attend.

The council-room was thronged. The Ambassador was introduced, and a copy of the statute was placed before him. He was informed that English subjects generally had voluntarily sworn to obey it. Two ladies only, Madam Catherine and Madam Mary, had declined, and the pains and penalties were pointed out to him which they might incur if they persisted.

Chapuys had been refused an opportunity of speaking his opinion in Parliament. It was now spontaneously offered him. He might, if he had pleased, have denounced the hardship of compelling the Queen and her daughter to assent personally to a statute which took their rights from them. The preamble declared the King’s marriage with Catherine to have been invalid, and in swearing to the Act of Succession she would be abandoning her entire plea. There was no intention, however, of forcing the oath upon the mother. Mary was the person aimed at; and Mary might have been spared also, if she had not “shewn her teeth” so plainly. Chapuys, however, spoke out boldly on the whole question. The King, he said, could not deprive the Princess of her place as heir to the crown, nor was the English Parliament competent to decide as to the validity of a marriage. The preamble of the statute was a lie. He would have proved it had he been permitted to speak there. People had sworn because they were afraid, and did not wish to be martyrs; and the oath being imposed by force, they knew that it could be no more binding than the oaths which he had lately taken to the Pope had bound the Archbishop of Canterbury. For a general answer, he produced the Pope’s sentence. The obstinacy which they complained of, he said, was in them, and not in the ladies. He could not persuade the ladies to swear; if he could, he would not, unless under orders from the Emperor; and he warned the Council that if they tried further violence they must be prepared to find the Emperor and Ferdinand their open enemies; the Emperor regarded the Queen as his mother, and the Princess as his sister; and, though he allowed that he was speaking without instructions, he intimated distinctly that the Emperor would not fail to protect them, and protect the cause of the Church, which had been intertwined with theirs.

Chapuys was bold, bolder perhaps than the Council had expected. The Bishop of Durham rose after a short pause. He had been Catherine’s advocate, and, as Chapuys said, was one of the most learned and honest prelates in the realm. But he, too, had come to see that the cause now at issue was the independence of England. He said that the statute had been well considered. It had been passed for the quiet of the realm, and must be obeyed. On Chapuys rejoining that the quiet of the realm required the King’s return to his wife, Tunstall mentioned the promises which had been made at the beginning of the suit, and produced the decretal which the Pope had given at Orvieto, declaring the marriage with Catherine invalid. Chapuys, in his answer, admitted, unconsciously, the justice of the English plea. He said the decretal had been issued when the Pope had just escaped from St. Angelo, and was angry and exasperated against the Emperor. As to other promises, he might or might not have made them. If he said he would give judgment in the King’s favour, he might have meant merely such a judgment as would be good for the King; or perhaps he was doing as criminal judges often did—holding out hopes to prisoners to tempt confessions from them. Such practices were legitimate and laudable.

The English argument was that a judge such as Chapuys described was not to be trusted with English suits. Henry himself could not have put the case more effectively. The Bishop of London spoke, and the Archbishop of York, and then Sampson (the Dean of the Chapel Royal), who affirmed bluntly that the Pope had no inherent rights over England. Man had given him his authority, and man might take it from him. Chapuys replied that the King had found it established when he came to the throne, and had himself recognised it in referring his cause to the Pope. Cranmer was present, but took no direct part. He brought out, however, the true issue, by suggesting, through Tunstall, that the Pope had incapacitated himself by submitting to be controlled by the Emperor. This was the point of the matter. To allow an English suit to be decided by Charles V. was to make England a vassal state of the Empire. To this Chapuys had no valid answer, for none could be given; and he discreetly turned the argument by reflecting on the unfitness of Cranmer also.

So far the laymen on the Council had left the discussion to the Bishops, and the Ambassador thought that he had the best of it. The Duke of Norfolk, he imagined, thought so too; for the Duke rose after the taunts at the Archbishop. The King’s second marriage, he said, was a fait accompli, and to argue further over it was loss of time. They had passed their statute, and he, for one, would maintain it to the last drop of his blood. To refuse obedience was high treason; and, the fact being so, the ladies must submit to the law. The King himself could not disobey an Act which concerned the tranquillity of the realm.

Chapuys would not yield. He said their laws were like the laws of Mahomet—laws of the sword—being so far worse, that Mahomet did not make his subjects swear to them. Not with entire honesty—for he knew now that Catherine had consented to the use of force—he added, that they could have small confidence in their own strength if they were afraid of two poor weak women, who had neither means nor will to trouble them.

The Council said that they would report to the King, and so the conversation ended. Chapuys spoke afterwards privately to Cromwell. He renewed his warning that, if violence was used, there would be real danger. Cromwell said he would do his best. But there was a general fear that something harsh would be tried at the instigation of the “accursed Concubine.” Probably the question would be submitted to Parliament, or as some thought the Queen and Princess would be sent to the Tower.[283] Conceiving extremities to be close, Chapuys asked the Scotch Ambassador whether, if a mandate came from the Pope against England, the Scots would obey it. Certainly they would obey it, was the answer, though they might pretend to regret the necessity.

Violence such as Chapuys anticipated was not in contemplation. The opinion of Europe would have been outraged, if there had been no more genuine reason for moderation. An appeal was tried on Catherine herself. The Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham, both of whom had been her friends, went down to her to explain the nature of the statute and persuade her to obedience. Two accounts remain of the interview—that of the Bishops, and another supplied to Chapuys by the Queen’s friends. The Bishops said that she was in great choler and agony, interrupted them with violent speeches, declared that she was the King’s lawful wife, that between her and Prince Arthur there had been never more than a formal connection. The Pope had declared for her. The Archbishop of Canterbury was a shadow. The Acts of Parliament did not concern her.[284] Chapuys’s story is not very different, though two elderly prelates, once her staunch supporters, could hardly have been as brutal as he describes. After various rough speeches, he said that the Bishops not only referred to the penalties of the statute (they themselves admitted this) but told her that if she persisted she might be put to death. She had answered that if any of them had a warrant to execute her they might do it at once. She begged only that the ceremony should be public, in the face of the people, and that she might not be murdered in her room.[285]

The mission had been rather to advise than to exact, and special demands were rather made on Catherine’s side than the King’s. Not only she would not swear herself to the statute, but she insisted that her household should be exempted also. She required a confessor, chaplains, physician, men-servants, as many women as the King would allow, and they were to take no oath save to the King and to her. Henry made less difficulty than might have been looked for—less than he would have been entitled to make had he known to what purpose these attendants would be used. The oath was for his native subjects; it was not exacted from herself, or by implication from her confessor, who was a Spaniard, or from her foreign servants.[286] If she would be reasonable he said that some of her requests might be granted. She might order her household as she pleased, if they would swear fidelity to him, and to herself as Princess Dowager. But he could not allow them to be sworn to her as Queen.

Chapuys’s business was to make the worst of the story to the Emperor. The Court was at Richmond. Chapuys went thither, presented a complaint to the Council, and demanded an interview with the King. Henry would not see him, but sent him a message that he would inquire into what had passed, and would send him an answer. Chapuys, who had been for two years urging war in vain, exaggerated the new injuries. Others, and perhaps he himself, really believed the Queen’s life to be in danger. “Every one,” he wrote, after describing what had taken place, “fears that mischief will now befall her; the concubine has said she will never rest till she is put out of the way. It is monstrous and almost incredible, yet such is the King’s obstinacy, and the wickedness of this accursed woman, that everything may be apprehended.”[287] Anne, it is likely, was really dangerous. The King, so far as can be outwardly traced, was making the best of an unpleasant situation. The Council promised Chapuys that his remonstrances should be attended to. The Queen was left to herself, with no more petty persecutions, to manage her household in her own way. They might swear or not swear as pleased themselves and her; and with passionate loyalty they remained devoted to her service, assisting her in the conduct of a correspondence which every day became more dangerous.